You know how if you care about someone and they don’t like dill,
you try to avoid making anything that might require dill?
To please them, you will purge your life of dill.
You go so far, work to stay so pure of dill,
that even when you are not with them you still eschew dill.
But maybe you really love dill.
Maybe your favorite seasoning of all time is dill,
but you believe you love them more, so you shun dill.
After all, no question, right? People before dill.
And then, one day, they leave your life and suddenly dill
can return and you think, “Wow, I actually prefer dill.”

The snow hid things
the tracks to my window erased
as the hearts we traced
into the dust on the sill
days when the wind scoured our faces
until they were pink and smooth
as unchewed gum balls

Now for warmth
only the patchwork quilt
made from old T-shirts
the bands we’d both loved
or pretended to love
for the sake of the other
lies that matched the snow
and covered us in dust
that made everything
beautiful in the moment
before drifting away

you will know when you arrive
as it will be filled
with the kind of people
who meet you on your ideal plane
they will wrap you in their arms
if you are one who blossoms
when giving and receiving hugs
they will sit quietly by your side
engaging in an unhurried exchange
of speaking and being heard
their love will be unconditional
you treasured as the imperfect
but well-intentioned traveler you are

you must never stop looking
for this place
it exists for you
you will find it

to get there
you need to take risks
accept that you are worthy of love
as your most authentic and unmasked self

you must fearlessly open your heart
unbox everything
and lay it on the grass
a yard sale of all your apprehensions
each ambition and catastrophic failure
your most impossible desires
set it in the light
that which you consider junk and prize
all of it is treasure
of value and great significance

trust those who stop to look
who pick up this piece and that
ask for an accounting
and you in turn
must reverently visit their displays
reach out gently
and help them sort their offerings
see the beauty in every frayed seam
and roughly drawn portrait

stop hiding from your own peace
there will never be a shortage of painful things
that happen for no good reason
you will lose people
you will see and experience
nearly unbearable suffering
you will be torn asunder
and healed
and broken again

this is always the journey

you are capable of more
than just surviving
if you cultivate acceptance
for our gorgeous but flawed natures

look for your people to love
you will find them everywhere
risk loving them
risk more
by allowing them
to love your most genuine self back

“You can’t park there,”
she yells from the window,
the top of her head
wrapped in a blue towel
as she’s just finished
shampooing her thick crown
in the kitchen sink.

She can’t abide
her long hair freed,
eddying down
over bare skin
to become trapped anew
in every fold,
catching on hip bones,
turning to an irritation
of itch an hour later.

She prefers to steep in baths
or wear a plastic cap
when forced to shortcut
her grooming,
endure the disorder
of a shower.

Every errant hair contained.
Each auto directed,
its angle apportioned,
she reigns,
unqualified dominion
over lonesome house
near water’s edge.

If only once,
she’d leap,
submerge fully
without a cap,
let the rain drench
every misaligned hair on her head,
umbrella holstered,
permit cars to scatter
willy-nilly across the drive,
would she still be,
or possibly be even more?